Completely backwards
by EllisHendricks
Summary: Set in a post-series 4 world, with mild spoilers for 'The Final Problem'. Molly's life has once again been turned upside down by Sherlock - and in a way she didn't see coming at all. Unashamedly Sherlolly. This is my first 'Sherlock' story, so any reviews (or reads, to be honest!) would be gratefully received. Final chapter now up - but there could be a sequel in it...
1. Chapter 1

Molly quickly tucked the small pill bottle into her handbag and made the short walk to the bus stop, where she was relieved to find that there space on the bench, out of the rain. She wondered how she would remember this day in years to come? Would she think about the shoes that she was wearing, completely ill-suited to the weather? What about the music that had been playing while she searched the shelves at the pharmacist's?

It was amazing how calm she now felt about the situation, and Molly felt that was worth acknowledging. Perhaps it was because the past few weeks had been so other-worldly and unreal that, actually, this was at least something that could be approached with practicality.

It had been a Tuesday, she remembered that because Tuesdays were usually laughable in their ordinariness. A call had come through from the front desk to say that she had a visitor, which was odd in itself, because Sherlock Holmes didn't usually find such social niceties necessary. Molly recalled the maelstrom of emotions that had immediately sparked inside her – the way she always felt when she heard his name, coupled with the sinking feeling that she was about to have her strength and resolve tested again.

Trying to control the thudding in her chest, she had gone to meet him – no need, really, as she was right outside her door. So much for those social niceties.

She had instinctively glanced around looking for John Watson, and it threw her when she realised that Sherlock had come alone.

"For what do I owe the honour?" Molly had asked, when he didn't immediately speak. "Or should I be asking what you've done to offend John Watson again?"

"Happy birthday, Molly," were the words that came out of Sherlock Holmes' mouth.

She had stared at him, probably slack-jawed, for a moment.

"You're a week early," she had managed to reply. She was braced for the real explanation, which was sure to come any second.

"I know," he replied. "This way, it means I get to say it first. Come on."

She remembered the feeling of complete bafflement then, wondering whether she'd managed to miss something entirely – it wouldn't be the first time.

"We're going out to dinner," he added.

"You're…taking me to dinner?"

She remembered the way Sherlock cocked his head momentarily before answering.

"If you like."

This was all incredibly strange, and she kept waiting for the punchline – the real reason he was there, the big reveal that would remind her why it was she was right to guard her heart so carefully.

"I have plans," she told him, immediately knowing this was a stupid tactic. This was Sherlock Holmes – he knew full well that she didn't have plans, and even if she did, he knew she would drop them in a heartbeat.

"I could buy a lasagne for one as well, and we could eat them together at your desk. I suppose it might be bearable with a decent Barolo. Unless it's absolutely imperative that you get home for the start of 'A Place in the Sun'?"

That was how, more or less, they had ended up at an Italian restaurant around the corner from the hospital. Molly's knowledge of places to eat was, she knew, woefully limited, but she had been to this one a few times with colleagues and knew it was safe territory – nothing could be misconstrued.

It took until they were halfway through the meal before she started to accept that there did not seem to be an ulterior motive to this occasion. She had wondered, perhaps, whether Sherlock's actions could be related to the phone call. That was weeks ago now, and Molly had assumed that he would never speak of it again – she knew how hard it had been for him to come to her, alone, unprompted, and ask for her forgiveness. Of course, it had had the rather unfortunate side-effect of her wanting him even more.

But in a way it had been liberating for her. Horrific, eviscerating though that phone call had been, now he knew – she had said it, and it was out in the open. She now knew that the declaration she had drawn out of him was a means to an end for him – even as she repeated the words back to him, she'd known he wasn't being truthful, but she'd said it anyway.

And now here they were, and Sherlock was attempting something that was trying to pass for conversation. It was stilted, and she had had to stifle a smile as she watched the agony of awkwardness and uncertainty in his expressions. She had even tried to give him a break by asking about recent cases, but he had let those conversational lifelines drop away. Instead, he had asked lots of questions about her, and to his credit had done his best not to look bored by her careful, tentative answers.

How the next part of the evening played out was still impossible for Molly to explain, such was its dreamlike quality and – at the same time – its heightened playout. Somehow, Sherlock Holmes invited himself back her flat, and, no sooner had they crossed the threshold, he had kicked the front door shut and grabbed her in what was the most unexpected and explosive kiss of her life. She had responded immediately, of course, and within seconds she was allowing herself to be steered backwards towards the bedroom, his lips still on hers, her hands in his hair. She remembered how she fleetingly wondered how he knew where her bedroom was, chiding her brain for posing such a question at such a time.

Sex with Sherlock Holmes was everything Molly had imagined, but also completely different. He was a strange mix of hesitancy and certainty, clearly wanting – feeling like he needed - to take the lead, but sometimes meeting her gaze and seemingly needing non-verbal reassurance from her. There were moments when she felt like she surprised him, perhaps even shocked him, but what did he expect when she was finally able to express how she felt about him after all these years? The sensation of Sherlock Holmes nuzzling her neck, murmuring into ear, even chuckling as she pushed his curly hair out of her eyes. Suddenly, right there in her bed, he was just a man.

And what had surprised her the most was that he stayed. Not the whole night, but when their heartrates returned to normal and flushed complexions faded, he hadn't fled as she had assumed he would. After all, sex was one thing – and for all she knew, perhaps he had just been curious and she was convenient – but intimacy was completely different. He had looked slightly lost, but when she reached up to take his cheek in her hand, he accepted and returned her kiss before allowing her to arrange them both in the bed, pulling his arms around her.

That was nearly seven weeks ago. She should have guessed when she woke up on Saturday and felt wretched; when the nausea faded, only to return with a vengeance every couple of hours for the next six days. Molly Hooper had been careful all her life, but trust Sherlock Holmes to make her break that habit.


	2. Chapter 2

"Who are you waiting for?" John Watson asked.

"What makes you think I'm waiting for someone?"

His friend's back was to him, and John smiled to himself.

"Because you've been watching the clock for the past half an hour, thinking that I wouldn't notice."

"Oh, so you have learnt something during our time of working together?" Sherlock replied, throwing one final – almost imperceptible – look towards the street.

"So?"

"If you must know, Molly."

"Molly's coming here? Why?"

"To tell me something."

John frowned. Something was definitely going on, and once again, he felt as though he was several steps behind.

"Don't you want to know what she's going to tell me?" Sherlock asked.

"Well, I was assuming I'll find out when she gets here."

"She's pregnant."

John felt as though somebody had smacked him in the back of the head. He actually dropped his phone, and fumbled on the floor to retrieve it.

"Pregnant? But how do you -? Why would she…?"

He studied his friend's expression, and suddenly there was no need for him to finish his question.

"You and Molly?" he gaped, aware that he was barely able to construct a cohesive sentence. "And you -"

"Yes, John, approximately seven weeks ago – forty-six days ago, if you must know – I had sexual intercourse with Molly Hooper."

As usual, Sherlock seemed incredibly matter-of-fact about what felt to John like a monumental revelation. He hadn't even been sure that his friend had properly made amends with Molly since the devastating interventions of Eurus, but now it seemed things had gone beyond 'amends'.

"Okay. Wow," John said, shaking his head quickly. "Full marks to both of you for keeping that one a secret. But what makes you think that she's pregnant?"

"Well, it was planned."

"You two planned this?"

"No. I did."

"I'm sorry, what? You planned to get Molly pregnant? Excuse me for being an idiot, but why?"

"It's what she wanted. She wants to have a baby."

"She told you that?"

"Not verbally."

"What does that mean?"

"I deduced it, it wasn't difficult."

John felt his stomach lurch, and this time it was Sherlock Holmes who needed to feel the full force of a smack in the head. He was sorely tempted to do it right now, himself. Despite what he had just said, however, his friend looked remarkably calm.

"Please, Sherlock, please don't tell me that you arrived at this conclusion based on…on…some assumptions about Molly's age, or, or how she is with Rosie – because I know she's great with Rosie – or -"

"Oh _please_ , John, I would never permit myself to stoop to the level of tabloid pop-psychology. There were other signs, clear indicators. Trust me."

John rubbed his face with his hands momentarily. Sherlock had put Molly Hooper through the emotional wringer several weeks ago, and now John feared that his friend had landed on the most wrong-headed way of making it up to her.

"Okay," John said, trying to level his voice. "So, what, you two had a one-night stand seven weeks ago?"

"I detest the phrase, but I suppose some would call it that."

"What, just like that?"

"I took her to dinner first," Sherlock replied, almost sounding offended.

"And then…"

"Then, yes, there was the sex."

John almost found himself smirking at the way his friend said this.

"But hang on, how can you be sure that Molly's pregnant?"

"Well, we didn't take any precautions."

This in itself surprised John about Molly, but he could well believe that such a presumably unexpected event might have caught her on the back-foot.

"Yes, but still – one time, Sherlock. Of course it does happen, but -"

"She hasn't replied to my texts since last Friday – conclusion: she is avoiding me. She had a doctor's appointment marked in her work calendar two days ago – no need to ask me how I know that, John – and another appointment marked out for today. An appointment with the community midwife, I would strongly assume. That appointment started at 4pm and, given the workload of the average NHS employee, would have been approximately fifteen minutes late and lasted no more than twenty minutes, meaning that she would have made it to the bus stop in time to catch the bus at ten to five, meaning that she will be arrive at 221B Baker Street somewhere between 5.25 and 5.35."

"Okay…" John said again slowly. "I see you've planned all this in your typically sociopathic manner. But still, one time?"

"As I told you, planning. You probably don't want to know the details, John, but it involved tracking cycles, isolating the best window for fertility - and me building up my consumption of zinc, hence all of those steak dinners."

John pulled a face. What woman wouldn't be delighted to know that the man they slept with had been tracking their menstrual cycle? Or that the same man was secretly trying to boost his fertility? And now that Sherlock mentioned it, he did remember a short period when his friend seemed to be eating the same food on hard rotation – but that kind of thing barely raised an eyebrow these days.

"You know this is deeply sociopathic, Sherlock? Not to mention arrogant in the extreme. You can't just _assume_ that a woman wants a baby and then take it upon yourself to make that happen -"

"I didn't _assume_ \- were you even listening to me?"

John silenced him with a raised hand to indicate that his friend should shut up, as he was barely getting started.

"Babies are a big decision, Sherlock - they change your life, in case you hadn't noticed. _If_ this is true – and yes, shut up, I know you think it's true - how do you imagine Molly is feeling right now? People think very carefully before bringing a child into the world, people plan these things – admittedly, not always, but Molly is that kind of person. Do you think this is a decision she would have made with all the facts to hand?"

"She'll be an excellent mother," Sherlock put in.

John let out an exasperated sigh.

"That, Sherlock, is not the point. You deceived her. Knowing how Molly Hooper feels about you, you deceived her, made her believe something that wasn't true, just so you could orchestrate something that you somehow believe that she wants."

He saw a wrinkle appear on Sherlock's brow.

"Which part of it wasn't true?"

Now it was John's turn to look confused.

"Oh, so you're saying Molly was aware that this was just a one-night stand?" he asked, deeply unconvinced. "That you were very clear upfront that, yes, you wanted to have sex with her, but no, there wasn't anything more to it than that?"

"If you're asking if we discussed it in depth, then no," Sherlock replied.

"She must be devastated," John said. "Now I'm asking myself how I hadn't noticed. I mean, what's been going on during the past seven weeks, Sherlock? She's been round here every few days, so, what, are you now just acting like that one night didn't happen?"

He saw an expression pass across Sherlock's face, one he didn't recognise. Hang on, was Sherlock Holmes blushing?

John folded his arms, focused his frown on his friend's inscrutable expression.

"Now I think I'm missing something," he said.

"I may have misled you somewhat during the course of this conversation," Sherlock said eventually. "Or, looking at it a different way, you have made assumptions, chosen to adhere to a particular interpretation. The fact is…there were other nights. Actually, technically speaking, not always nights."

John stared at him now, open-mouthed.

"How many nights – or not-nights?"

"Oh for god's sake, John, is that really important?" Sherlock spat. "Several nights, lots of nights…okay, if we really have to put a number on it, twenty-eight nights. Or not-nights."

John felt his eyes spontaneously widen at this confession, and he couldn't help but let out a laugh. And keep laughing.

"Why are you laughing? Is that a lot?"

"I would say it demonstrates a distinct pattern, Sherlock, wouldn't you?" John eventually managed. "If Molly is pregnant -"

"She is."

" _If_ Molly is pregnant," John continued, unabated. "Then it's hardly surprising, given those odds."

Sherlock shook his head resolutely.

"It was that first night. Since then, we've…she's made me…"

"Use protection?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied, looking relieved that his friend saved him the awkwardness. "Precisely."

John sighed. For a highly gifted mind, Sherlock Holmes could be decidedly obtuse.

"But doesn't that tell you something, Sherlock? Namely that Molly has no intention of getting pregnant, of having your child?"

"Wrong. She insisted we take precautions only because that's what she felt she _should_ do, that as a modern, strong, independent women, she felt that's what she had to do. If she didn't, it would look like she wanted to get pregnant, and she'd worry about how that would seem to me, how I would interpret that, what it would mean for what was going on between us."

Arms folded, John glanced at the floor, then back up to meet Sherlock's face.

"And what is going on between you, Sherlock? Because if you're using Molly, you'd bloody well better put an end to it right now. If -"

He stopped mid-sentence, halted by the look on his friend's face – Sherlock Holmes looked burned.

"You've fallen for her," John said quietly, a smile beginning to appear on his face. "For all of that planning you did, you didn't plan for this. I'm right, aren't I?"

"You were there," Sherlock replied, a note of terseness in his voice. "You were there when I told Molly I loved her."

Sherlock was averting his gaze. He was, John realised, for once in his life, out of his depth.

"Yes," John agreed. "I was. But to be honest, Sherlock, I never expected you to act on it. After all, it would have been easy enough to explain away, and you know full well that Molly would have eventually forgiven you."

"Believe me, John, I'm perfectly aware of that," Sherlock replied, a note of exasperation in his voice. "But after all that I put her through, I…I came to the conclusion that if it was within my ability to do so, what I needed was to make Molly happy. Hence the baby."

John sighed in disbelief.

"You know something, Sherlock, you're a bloody idiot. You've got this completely backwards. I have no way of knowing for sure what she thinks about having a baby, but I think I can say with a good degree of confidence is that Molly Hooper is already happy."

The consulting detective looked genuinely perplexed.

"You, Sherlock," John said, taking a step towards his friend. Still, he seemed nonplussed.

"What would make her happy is you," John explained. "And god knows you're a lucky bastard to have found the one woman in the world for whom that's the case."

"Right."

Sherlock's brow was furrowed, his arms folded as he focused his gaze somewhere on the floor.

"I mean, not if you're a complete cock to her, obviously," John added. "I mean, any more than you have been in the past. If you really want to make Molly happy, just make this work, Sherlock – finish what you've started."

Without looking up, Sherlock replied in a low, surprisingly uncertain voice.

"You make it sound easy."

John laughed, leaning back on the windowsill that overlooked the road.

"It isn't easy, Sherlock, it's bloody hard," he replied. "Think of the hardest case you've ever had to crack and then double it. But I know you – five years ago there wouldn't have been a chance in hell, but now…now you can do it, no question. You know why? Because now, you want to."

There was a pause.

"It's five-thirty," Sherlock said.

As if on cue, he heard the doorbell ring downstairs. Molly always rang the doorbell, out of politeness, even though she'd long since had a key.

"What are you going to say?" John asked.

He saw Sherlock blink, trying to focus his thoughts, apparently without much success. John saw him swallow, hard.

"I…" he began, his voice barely more than a whisper. "I don't know."


	3. Chapter 3

The bus was uncomfortably hot, the heaters belching out air somewhere around her ankles. She did have a seat, however, so she supposed she should be grateful. What she was grateful for, though, was the rush-hour traffic – it was gridlocked around Russell Square. More time to think, compose. She had tested out a number of approaches in her mind, but knew she wouldn't know which one to deploy until she was standing in front of Sherlock and saw the first flicker of his reaction.

What it came down to, though, was that she had no idea what was going on. Every time she thought she knew, something would happen to unbalance her, to undermine her theory.

That first, strange, wonderful night – Molly hadn't known what had hit her. When Sherlock had kissed her, several voices immediately started to compete in her head. The first one was overwhelmed with euphoria, of course – how could it not be, when she had hoped, dreamed, tormented herself with this possibility for so long? Then the doubting voice barged its way into her consciousness, the one that questioned his motives – was this somehow for a case? Did he want something from her? She'd even fleetingly wondered whether, with his emotionally-stunted psyche, Sherlock was offering this as a 'treat' for her – a thank you - like the time he let her follow him around on a case. Or maybe – maybe Sherlock just wanted to have sex and knew that, with her, he was unlikely to meet with resistance.

Molly knew he would stop right away if she asked him to, but as the bedroom door slammed behind them, she had experienced a 'sod it' moment – she was going to do this and enjoy it for what it was. If Sherlock was only there to take from her, she was damn well going to take from him, too.

But then he came back.

Two nights later, as she was tidying up after dinner, he was once again standing there in her kitchen. The look on his face was not the one he wore when he wanted her help with a case.

Then he was back the next day, the afternoon after that and the early hours of the morning after that. Several times the words were on the tip of her tongue, but if she asked him what was going on, there was a very real possibility that it would end – and she didn't want that.

If it had just been sex, that would be less complicated (possibly). But sometimes, and increasingly as time went on, it felt more…domestic – in the best possible way. One morning Sherlock disappeared from the flat, only to return with coffee and croissants from the bakery down the road, which they consumed in her bedroom with the newspapers spread out in front of them. He let her rest her feet in his lap on the couch, allowed her to idly play with his hair when they were both deep in their books – even let Toby, her cat, sit on his shoulder in the armchair. She had sometimes been blindsided by displays of affection that she wouldn't have previously thought possible – kisses at her front door when he was leaving, his arms wrapping around her waist as she tried to make dinner, once even rubbing her feet after she'd spent ten hours conducting post-mortems in the path lab.

Of course, all of this strangeness had caused Molly sporadic bouts of anxiety. She'd spent far too much time thinking about how she measured up – and who she might be measured up to. Kiss-and-tell Janine, of course; it didn't matter that the relationship had been a ruse – Sherlock _must_ have been sleeping with her to keep up the deception. Then there was The Woman. Somehow, Molly couldn't picture Irene Adler in plaid pyjamas with her hair scraped back, asking Sherlock to help her lure a cat down from the top of the kitchen cupboards. She tried to think positive. Sherlock didn't seem to mind the fact that her underwear rarely matched, or how – even after more than twenty years of practice – she was still crap at putting on makeup.

But it was all a secret, wasn't it? Never had Sherlock told her it had to be, but it was clear that John knew nothing about it, and neither did Mrs Hudson (although Mrs Hudson had given her what looked like a knowing smile when she had last come over to collect Rosie – probably just her paranoia).

Normal people didn't keep normal relationships hidden, did they? Granted, nothing about Sherlock Holmes was normal, but it played on Molly's fears and suggested to her one of two things – either he was ashamed of it, or he didn't intend whatever they were doing to have any permanence...

…which made her – _their_ – current situation particularly complicated.

The bus lurched forwards in traffic, and Molly felt her stomach go with it – morning sickness was such a cruel misnomer, she remembered Mary saying that.

To her annoyance, her first instinct was to make it easy for Sherlock, to make sure he could distance himself if that's what he wanted. Would that be what he wanted? Molly honestly had no idea whether he even wanted _her_ , let alone a baby. One voice on her shoulder reminded her how adorable, how doting Sherlock was with his goddaughter – something, when witnessed, that always did funny things to her insides. But the other voice reminded her that a few hours with someone else's baby is a world apart from raising one of your own – and Sherlock wasn't exactly the most consistent, reliable presence in anyone's life. He could be incredibly selfish, had very little patience, and made no secret of the fact that his work came before anything else. Plus, he was an intermittent user of hard drugs, only clean for a matter of a few months. Molly let her head drop against the juddering window of the bus – despite all of that, and a lot worse, she had still fallen in love with him.

What she did know was that she needed to expel all mental images of Sherlock with their baby from her mind – they were definitely not helping her at this point.


	4. Chapter 4

Oh dear god. He really _didn't_ know.

Until fifteen minutes ago, it had all seemed perfectly clear. Molly would arrive, he would dismiss John, and then when she 'broke' the news to him, he would explain how it had all gone exactly per his plan. But now, seconds before he came face to face with Molly, this suddenly seemed like the worst thing that could ever come out of his mouth – and that was despite a lot of fierce competition. John was right – of course he was right. He was right about everything.

Sherlock deduced that he had around 46 seconds between Mrs Hudson answering the front door and Molly Hooper appearing on his threshold – perhaps a little longer if Mrs Hudson wanted to make 'chit-chat' (he still didn't understand the value of 'chit-chat'). But Molly wouldn't be in the frame of mind for small-talk, he realised, given the message she had come to convey.

"You'd better come up with something," John told him as he shrugged his coat on. "And no hiding in the wardrobe or out on the window ledge. You need to face this."

Sherlock ignored him – he was using up his valuable seconds.

How should he react to her 'news'? Surprised? No, he knew he wouldn't pull that one off – Molly knew him too well and would see it in his face.

" _Sherlock_ ," John said, more insistently this time. "Finish what you've started. And if I hear from Mrs Hudson that Molly has run out of the front door in tears, I'm going to come up here and kick you right in the balls – I mean it."

Sherlock let out a sigh.

"How should I be?" he asked, realising that he was admitting defeat and that John was going to remind him of this moment again and again (although, dear god, he'd better not blog about it).

John stuffed his hands into his coat pockets and gave him a crooked smile.

"The woman you clearly love – who undoubtedly loves you - is coming to tell you that she's pregnant with your baby," he said. "The only thing you need to 'be' is honest about how that makes you feel."

That was exactly what he feared John would say, but yet again Sherlock grudgingly accepted that he was right. He nodded his thanks, and John turned to go. At that moment, they both heard the soft rapping on the door to the flat.

His hand on the latch, John turned round to face him.

"In the balls, Sherlock," he half-whispered, half-hissed, fixing Sherlock with a warning glare. "Hard."

John swung open the door and Sherlock felt his heart rocket up into this throat before plunging several storeys through the floor. Molly's gaze connected with his and he realised he'd been holding his breath.

"Molly, hi," John said, in a tone that Sherlock recognised as 'breezy'. "Just on my way out with Rosie. Are you here about a case?"

Molly shifted the strap of her bag on her shoulder. _Nervous_ , Sherlock noted, _unsure_ – _frightened_? His immediate instinct was to try to assuage all of that, but he knew he had to let her do what she came to do.

"No…I…er, just came to see Sherlock about something," she replied, distractedly. She shook her head slightly, adding, "Sorry – how is Rosie doing?"

"Fine. Well, thank you," John said. "She's been enjoying Sherlock's entry-level chemistry lessons."

Molly's face contorted into a confused smile, as she looked from John over to him.

"Just the basics," Sherlock said, mildly annoyed at yet again more pointless chit-chat. "Making a solid product through recrystallization, measuring an enthalpy change."

Molly nodded, still clearly confused and distracted.

"Anyway, I'll be about an hour," John said, pointedly checking his phone before pocketing it in his coat. Sherlock knew that was code for TEXT ME.

Immediately, Sherlock felt a jolt of terror course through his veins – John was actually leaving him to muddle through this situation on his own. Of course, logically, he knew that they couldn't really have this conversation with John in the room, but even Molly looked slightly bereft as the latch clicked shut behind him.

Molly was fiddling with the strap on her bag, and shifted from one foot to another.

 _Think, think, say something!_ Sherlock urged himself.

"Hi," he said, finally, softly. _It's a start_ , he reasoned with himself. Their recent meetings, when alone, had followed a certain course, and so he made a couple of steps towards Molly, intending to kiss her. Yes, he needed to keep up appearances, but mostly, he acknowledged, he just wanted to – that was the effect she had on him these days.

Her kiss was brief, slightly awkward, as though someone else was in the room with them.

 _Normal. What would be normal?_

"Tea?" he offered.

 _Tea? Tea?!_

"Um, no, I'm fine," she replied, toying with a toggle on her duffle coat. "Thank you. I'm really…I couldn't."

She looked pale, Sherlock realised – actually more than pale, more like grey. He was about to suggest she sat down, when she spoke again.

"I have to say something," she began. "And I don't know how I'm supposed to say it because I've never had to say it before, but I need you to give me time and let me speak and not interrupt me, and just…"

It was then that Molly caught his gaze, and he saw her face contort – she was trying not to cry, and Sherlock felt a sharp twinge deep in his chest. This wasn't what he'd imagined – and now he felt incredibly stupid for not foreseeing it.

"I'm sorry for not replying to your texts, Sherlock," Molly continued, having regained some control. "I don't know why I haven't. Well, I do know why – I just didn't know how to without lying to you, and I don't want to lie to you – and anyway you'd know if I was lying – so it was easier just…not to. They always say that when you have to give someone news – good or bad news – you should just do it, but it's hard, it's _really_ hard, and that's why I haven't been round and why I told you I was going to be out that night two weeks ago, I…"

He wanted to save her from this, but felt trapped – he felt his heart contort as he watched her struggling to find the words.

"I'm pregnant, Sherlock."

There it was.

He stared at her, suddenly realising that the words from her lips still had power, despite telling him what he already knew. And immediately he wished he hadn't known – he wished it had been a surprise, because it would have been a wonderful, astonishing, life-changing surprise, and all he wanted to do now was to sweep her up in his arms and kiss her and reassure her – but he knew that he couldn't lie to her.

"I'm pregnant," Molly repeated, more quietly this time, looking at him, her eyes entreating a reaction from him.

Sherlock swallowed and took a step closer to her.

"I know."

Molly's brow wrinkled, she blinked quickly.

"You…know?" she repeated, and Sherlock could almost see her brain cycling through a full range of possible reactions and trying to settle on the right one. She let out a short, choked laugh.

"Of course you know," she said, and she swiped the first tear from her cheek. "I should have…of course you'd work it out."

Sherlock nodded slowly. He could barely look at her face: _pain, confusion, fear, doubt_.

"Yes. But I…I need you to know something too," he ventured. "And this time I'm going to need you to hear _me_ out, and please, _please_ , Molly, don't walk out of the door before I finish, however much you want to, because I'm still working all of this out in my head and it might not sound right, but I need you to understand that I'm not the same man as I was seven weeks ago."

He saw another tear fall before Molly dashed it away.

"No. _No!_ " he quickly added, realising how it could be misconstrued that he no longer felt whatever he felt that had kept driving him back to her night after night.

"What I mean is, that night – the first night – it was wonderful, it was incredible, it was _right_. But I hadn't thought beyond that night."

"S'okay, Sherlock," Molly said carefully. "That happens. I mean, people don't always think beyond…"

There she went again, trying to make him feel better, always trying to lessen his discomfort when it was the last thing he deserved at this moment.

"After everything, after all you've done for me, after all the care you've given me, after Eurus, I realised that I wanted to make you happy, Molly, but the method I arrived on, I know now, was entirely foolish."

"Method?" she replied, her voice suddenly sounding hard. "Is that what you call what happened between us?"

"No, that's not what I meant. That was – at the time it was – a means to an end. The truth is, Molly, that I thought that having a baby would make you happy, that it would give you what was missing in your life, but what I now realise is that not only was that incredibly, unforgivably arrogant and presumptuous, but it wasn't even the truth behind why I did it. The truth – and all the planning – it was not for your benefit, it was for mine. My feelings frighten me, Molly Hooper, they always have, and when I finally accepted these feelings – the ones I have for you - for what they were, I had no idea how to channel them, but also no idea how to stop myself from losing you. It was easier to tell myself that I was doing it for you, but selfishness is a habit that dies hard, Molly, and I know now that it was all for me."

The relief that he had come to the end of his speech was immense, but Sherlock was not convinced that any of it had made any sense. Feelings, _sentiment_ , had the effect of making him sound like a blundering, gibbering idiot.

He watched Molly cross to the sofa and wordlessly lower herself down onto it.

"Molly…?"

"Planning," she said, eventually. "Did you say planning?"

"Yes. As far as I could."

"You planned to get me pregnant? Turning up at the lab, taking me out to dinner, coming back to my flat – it was all part of a plan?"

He was a terrible human being – with the truth laid bare in front of him, nothing could be more clear.

Molly shook her head, visibly trying to process it all. She had probably rendered herself sick with worry over this conversation, only for it to take a course for which she could never have planned.

"I'm so stupid," she said, finally. "I should have seen this – in fact, I think I almost did see it, but convinced myself that I was wrong, that you wouldn't…What if I had been on the pill, Sherlock, what then?"

"I knew that you weren't."

"Okay, what if I had made you use a condom? Would you have tried to talk me out of it? Jesus, why didn't I? You know that was the first time in my life I've ever…that I didn't…And you know the stupid thing, Sherlock? I thought about going to the chemist's the next day, after you'd gone – I thought about it several times, but I never did it. For some stupid reason I decided to ignore science and consequences and being a grownup, and just leave it to – I don't know – _fate_."

She said the word 'fate' like it was a bad taste she needed to expel.

"You don't get to take the credit for this one, Sherlock, not all of it," she added, a tone of bitterness in her voice.

"I'm going to go now."


	5. Chapter 5

Every fibre in his body was telling him to throw himself between Molly and the door, and while he knew he had no right, he couldn't let her walk out of there without all of the facts.

"I love you," he blurted, his brain eventually catching up.

She stopped. That meant something – didn't it?

"I love you, and I know we didn't talk about it the last time I said it, not properly, like we should have done. Maybe I thought it was enough just to have said it. But it's real, and it's, it's big, and it frightens me to think of how much it has taken over my life – I have never, _never_ experienced anything like it before, Molly, and I know I never will again. This is it for me, Molly, and if I can't make it work, if I can't make you see, make you understand…make you forgive me…then, then…it's all been for nothing."

When he finally looked at her, she was biting her lip gently. He could see her eyes were pricked with tears again, but she wasn't allowing them to fall.

"Love is never for nothing, Sherlock," she said. "If anyone knows that, it should be me."

Tentatively, he moved a step closer to her. When she didn't move, he took another one. John's words suddenly rung loud in his consciousness – she had to know how it made him feel.

"I love our baby," he said, aching to touch Molly but still not daring to. "I know he's only the size of a blueberry and probably has slightly webbed fingers and toes at the moment, but I love him. I want him."

Now she was crying. Big, weighty tears fell from Molly's eyes, and he didn't know whether he had yet earned the right to comfort her.

"I want him and I want you," Sherlock added, almost choking on his words as he felt his own eyes sting. "I want us."

He watched as she dabbed at her cheeks with the sleeve of her coat drawn over her hand. He thought he could see her expression change.

"Why does everything have to be so bloody complicated with you, Sherlock?" she said, a laugh breaking through the sobs. "I've put up with some shit from boyfriends in the past, but this is way up there."

Boyfriend. She'd used the b-word. And it wasn't the b-word she'd used on him in the past, including during the phone call from Sherrinford. It was not a title that had ever before been bestowed on him – not even during the whole Janine debacle - and he liked how it sounded coming from Molly's lips. Of course, he hoped it would only be a place-holder for something much more permanent – but he was getting ahead of himself again.

"I can't help it if I'm in every way superior to all of your previous boyfriends," he said, unable to help himself.

And then Molly Hooper swats him and he suspects – dares to believe – that he is in the process of being forgiven. He takes a chance, stepping forward and engulfing her in a hug. Her small form folds into his, and Sherlock feels her arms wrap around his waist; he is suddenly, acutely, aware that this is his family. He pulls back so that he can see Molly's face.

"You look terrible," he remarks, the edges of his mouth curving up slightly.

Molly pokes him hard in the side.

"I feel like shit," she replies. "I think your baby is trying to eviscerate me."

"He carries fifty per cent of _your_ genes, remember?"

"Yeah, the nice ones are mine," she said. There was a pause, as though something had just dawned on her. "Why do you keep saying 'he'?"

"It's a boy."

"That's ridiculous!" Molly laughed. "Not even you could possibly deduce that, Sherlock."

"We'll see."

As he continues to hold her, he feels his phone vibrate in his pocket as it pings out a text alert. Molly glances up at him.

"John," he explains, before he's even checked the message. She doesn't seem to have a problem with him diverting his attention to his phone, so he takes a look.

 **Well? It's bloody freezing outside and I want to bring Rosie back in – SH**

For the first and – god help him – hopefully the only time in his life, Sherlock texts back one of those smiley face emoji things.

He then returns his attention to the mother of his child, whose weight is leaning against him in a manner suggesting that she is falling asleep. Sherlock suspects that the next eight months or so are going to strongly test him in every way, but failing Molly is not an option. He tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

"You're staying here tonight," he says.

He feels her nod against his chest.

"And I will furnish you with whatever food you think that your stomach might be able to tolerate in the circumstances."

"That's very hunter-gatherer of you," Molly smiles, looking up at him.

"I believe it's what all good fathers-to-be do," Sherlock says, returning the smile. "Although only the best ones are given extra portions when they go out on the hunt."

At that moment, the door to 221B was flung open and Mrs Hudson came barrelling through, with John – toting a red-cheeked Rosie – clearly trying to keep up. One thing was clear to Sherlock – John Watson had a big mouth. Now who needed a swift kick in the testicles?

Arms flung open, Mrs Hudson came hurtling towards them, giving Sherlock and Molly mere seconds to put enough distance between them to allow her to swaddle them both in a hug. She seemed to be emitting what Sherlock could only assume were excited squeals. No sooner had Mrs Hudson finished squeezing the living breath out of him, he felt a sharp smack on the side of his head.

"Ow!"

He looked accusingly at his landlady, his skin still stinging. Beyond her, he could see John smirking at him, and he felt Molly laughing into his shoulder.

"That's for being a silly sod," Mrs Hudson told him, by way of explanation. "And for keeping this lovely girl a secret."

"Molly's not a secret," he retorted.

"You know precisely what I mean, Sherlock," she replied, but within a few seconds her hard stare had softened and she returned to trying to throttle them both with kindness.

"Another baby in the house!" she exclaimed, reaching to touch Molly in the general vicinity of her stomach. "And your mother will be thrilled, Sherlock!"

Dear god, his mother. Mrs Hudson's reaction was likely to be a very agreeable dry-run compared to breaking the news to the formidable Wanda Holmes. He had a feeling he was going to have to encounter far more hugs and interrogations than he was entirely comfortable with.

"And Uncle Mycroft!" John exclaimed, setting Rosie down on her play mat. "You have to let me be there when you break the news to Mycroft."

Sherlock glared at John, but then thought about how far this might put him ahead of his dear brother in his parents' good books. Mycroft was already lagging behind him considerably after everything that had happened with Eurus and Sherrinford. He almost felt sorry for him.

"You must sit down, dear," Mrs Hudson said, ushering Molly over to the sofa. Molly caught his eye and they exchanged a smile. He missed her touch already, and moved to sit beside her when John caught him by the arm.

"Good work, Sherlock," he said, in little more than a whisper. "You're spending that currency well. Mary would be proud."

Sherlock nodded, aware more than ever that his friend's beloved wife was absent from this this latest Baker Street gathering.

As he sunk into the sofa, he felt Mrs Hudson's hand clamp around his leg, just above his knee; her other hand was in a similar position on Molly's.

"I expect you two have been having quite a bit of sex," Mrs Hudson said. "And I imagine that's been a lot of fun. I can still remember that feeling at the start of new relationship, when you just can't keep your hands off each other, when all you can think about is when you'll next have the opportunity to tear each other's clothes off. Now, Sherlock, don't be worried if Molly won't go near you for the next few weeks –

I've heard things pick up again in the second trimester."

A jolt of horror shot through Sherlock's veins, and looking across, he realised his revulsion was matched only by the deep blush in Molly's cheeks.

John coughed.

"Tea?"

Sherlock and Molly both looked up at him, eyes flicking to each other before returning to their rescuer.

"Yes!" they responded simultaneously.

 **THE END**


End file.
